


Chewing on Pearls

by DoreyG



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (Not in this one at least), (Though they don't), Community: kink_bingo, Insane characters being insane, Insufficient preparation, M/M, Mentions of murdered OCs, Possibly semi-public, They'd do it on top of Nelson's column if they could, Well that's Moriarty, Will stop tagging now, domestic/tradesman kink, wall!sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-21
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 19:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/410054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim likes him like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chewing on Pearls

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Domestic/Tradesman card on my Kink_Bingo. Because something about the word "tradesman" obviously inspired the urge to write about fucked up couples who would kill each other in an instant and laugh while doing so.

Jim likes him like this.

A bit of rough, a two days growth of beard covering his cheeks in dirty blonde. Those dark eyes immediately glitter, the man immediately pulls him back against the wall and draws him in for a _bruising_ kiss.

“…The job went well,” he can only breathe in heavily, when he’s _finally_ released (just slightly: Jim’s back is still against the wall and Jim’s eyes are _still_ promising a bloody sort of death if he dares to put a toe out of line), resist the urge to run a hand through his longer-than-normal hair.

“Excellent,” as if in reward for that Jim _purrs_ , arches up against him and runs those _dangerous_ (always dangerous, they look so frail but they could snap any neck like a stick) fingers through his hair _for_ him, “both the targets dead?”

Two grannies, one in her late sixties and the other (possibly her sister, or her cousin – they had the same nose) about halfway through her storming seventies. Both related to a hotshot that’d been daring to shoot off his mouth with nothing to back him up. Both in the habit of frequenting the same swimming pool. Both dropped with only the briefest scream.

“Yes.”

“ _Excellent_ ,” Jim’s fingers creep down again, link at the back of his neck – a clearly threatening gesture, as all Jim’s gestures are in a narrowly veiled way, “but, then, that’s always _my_ Moran – excellent in every area of life.”

A purring pause.

“…Every area he’s _tried_.”

Another, slightly more sinister (and so it should be, for the first moment he fails at _anything_ he _knows_ that a bullet will be entering his very own skull), purr.

“ _Up_.”

And he obeys instantly – hoisting Jim up in his arms, up the wall (it isn’t hard, he’d swear that Jim Moriarty was some insubstantial sprite half the time), until the man can wrap those slim legs around his hips and laugh hotly into his ever so obedient mouth, “ _That’s_ my Moran.”

He doesn’t allow himself to feel a surge of pride – only keeps holding, and kissing.

“You should wear this look more often,” even as Jim confirms what he already knew, those hands suddenly back in his longer-than-normal hair and _tugging_ in a way that’d bring tears to a lesser man’s eyes, “It _suits_ you. Ragged, unkempt. A properly stylish supervillain always needs an uncouth _thug_ to make him look better, after all…”

He’s tempted to get offended.

…Doesn’t.

He’s tempted to _smile_ -

…Doesn’t.

Only hoists Jim up a touch higher, at a practically imperceptible scratch of nails across his scalp, and kisses the man’s neck. Nips there _just_ to hear the half-aroused, half-warning rumble that the man always gives in such situations (in _any_ situation, for Jim Moriarty is one of those half-gods that can carry a thundercloud of threat with him wherever he goes).

“You know your place, you know your _place_ \- _good_ boy,” Jim hisses into his ear, gives a high pitched _giggle_ (he’s the only man that he’s ever met who can actually _giggle_ ) and jerks his head back by his longer-than-normal hair “…But what is your place?”

“Under you?” He offers, half prompt answer and half almost-daring (except not actually, for daring is not encouraged around Jim) question.

“ _Yes_!” Jim giggles again, somehow higher than before “…But might you have more places? Might you be one of those rare boys that can occupy _multiple_ places?”

…He remains silent this time.

“Multiple places, yes,” his input is not required, is not _often_ required when Jim has that hurricane in his eyes (which is always, he knows that _very_ well by now), “you might have a place in the fixing industry, my Moran. The fixing of _broken_ things industry-“

He still remains silent.

“…Maybe even when those broken things, those shattered _shards_ , don’t want to be fixed,” as Jim’s eyes go even darker, as that hurricane rips up trees and devastates houses and somehow manages to set fire to the world in _such_ a brutal way, “ _maybe_.”

He considers.

Leans in to place a bite, a _hard_ one, against that pale neck and is mildly gratified when Jim eases all at once – even stops fisting his hair and starts _stroking_ instead, like he’s some eager dog begging for a treat (…Well, he’s never been all that good at pretending).

“Maybe _not_.”

He’s tempted to give another smile, gives another _bite_ instead.

“Fuck me, then…” Which is obviously the right decision, judging by the faint narrow of Jim’s eyes and the _dark_ curve of his mouth, “ _fuck_ me, my Moran. Right here against this wall with your _uncouth_ jeans done to free your cock and your beard _burning_ me with every thrust.”

…He has lube in the back pocket of those jeans ( _always_ has lube in his back pocket, because it’s best to be prepared around a man like Jim).

So they’re fine, they’re _good_. He gives a brief shrug – holds Jim to the wall as the man swiftly removes those slim legs from around his waist and then removes his trousers with one fast _kick_. Jim’s wearing no underwear, yet another thing to be expected from the Moriarty with hurricane eyes. He _doesn’t_ take a moment to appreciate (sensible, ever sensible around Jim) as he reaches around for that lube.

“Be _quick_.”

…Reaches around _swiftly_ for that lube.

He doesn’t bother coating his fingers thoroughly, knows very well that Jim would quite happily kill him and flutter off to find his pleasure _elsewhere_. Instead settles for a vague splattering, hitches Jim slightly higher on the wall and _thrusts_ one finger up into him – taking the choked off cry as a perfectly justified sort of victory.

(For it is a victory, to have such a man clenching around one of his smaller digits-)

…Even if the man _is_ soon clawing at his shoulders, hissing in his ear like the basest demon from the depths of hell (he thinks he stated earlier: he’s _never_ been all that good at pretending), “Now, Moran.”

He looks up, takes in those hurricane eyes calmly.

“Aren’t the worker bees supposed to fuck like cavemen? _Now_.”

…Slides that barely prepared finger out, reaches that still troublesomely slick hand down to free himself.

(With any other man he’d argue the necessities of preparation. Argue that the spit slicked fingers thing is a _myth_ , and a harmful one at that. Argue that lubrication should go both ways and the hole should be properly opened up if burning and pain and even _bleeding_ aren’t to result… But-)

Jim is truly the basest demon, after all, and to him burning and blood and _pain_ only add colour.

He doesn’t bother hitching Jim up any further, _knows_ the man can handle it, before thrusting in. Holds himself still for a long moment, as Jim _howls_ and scrabbles all over his back (almost drawing blood, he’s that base and that demonic) and shows his teeth so vividly to the ceiling.

“I’m pretty sure workers don’t do this,” he offers softly, as he steadily starts to pick up his pace.

“You obviously haven’t met many _workers_ , my Moran-“

He swallows another howl with his mouth (it shakes his teeth), keeps thrusting until his muscles _burn_ with the effort and Jim is letting out gasping, shrieking chuckles on every single breath.

He could listen to those chuckles forever, he thinks absently as that burn solidifies in his thighs (where Jim’s still somehow worn shoes are viciously digging in), just let himself be swallowed up by them. Dragged under by them. _Drowned_ by them so very sweetly.

But he supposes that he’s been already swallowed, he continues to muse as that burn creeps up his back (where Jim’s nails are scratching so viciously), and possibly dragged under too. For he would _truly_ let Jim kill him in whatever way he chose. Draw him tumbling into those hurricane eyes. Stab him roughly with those impossible nails. Even tear his throat bloodily open with his demon teeth.

And maybe he’s even already been _drowned_ , he allows to occur to him as the pain flickers briskly down his arms (still holding Jim to the wall), Sebastian Moran entirely vanished. Colonel Sebastian Moran (son of Augustus Moran, murderer of man-eating tigers, author of two best selling books, half proud of his dishonorable discharge from an unappreciative army) completely _swallowed_ up by Jim Moriarty (son of nobody, murderer of all, author of destruction, proud of the hurricanes that spill out of his eyes). Obliterated. _Erased_.

_Maybe_ -

Hedoesn’tmind.

…He doesn’t mind, he repeats to himself in more sensible tones. After Jim has come and drawn blood in a _sharp_ order to follow him over the edge.

For he doesn’t.

Not _really_.

“You _truly_ haven’t met many workers, my Moran,” Jim is purring, not bothering to ease his legs down as he strokes those dangerous fingers through his longer-than-normal hair, “but that’s alright, my Moran, for you don’t have to meet many other workers to _redefine_ the term.”

…Not at all.

“Like me.”

At _all_.

“Like _me_.”


End file.
